


The Great Westeros Love Story

by stargategeek



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Bachelorette, Binding Contracts, F/M, Forbidden Love, LOTS OF ALCOHOL CONSUMPTION, Love, Love Mansion, Man Bitches, Pie, Rose Ceremonies, Roses, Smut, Sweet, Unrealistic “reality”, contestant, dating show, host - Freeform, live TV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-11-17 21:47:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18107114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stargategeek/pseuds/stargategeek
Summary: Twenty years and he’d never made it with a contestant.Until fucking now.





	1. Prologue - Live From Love Mansion

~~~~

Every new season had its gimmick.

~~~~

TONIGHT ON THE GREAT WESTEROS LOVE STORY!

(Title card, theme music)

WE’RE BRINGING YOU ALL THE BACHELORS

(sting)

ALL THE ROMANCE

(music sting)

AND ALL THE DRAMA

(big fucking music sting)

WE’VE BEEN DELIVERING YEAR AFTER YEAR. EXCEPT THIS YEAR WE’RE DOING IT

(dun dun dun!)

LIVE!

PREMIERE BEGINS NEXT ON W7K TV.

~~~~

Twenty years and he’d never made it with a contestant.

It was what he was known for, in the business. Consistency. Diplomacy. Ready, steady, Baelish.

Even though he was considered hotter than a considerable amount of the contestants. Even despite the infamous Myranda Royce rumours or the dissolution of his own tempestuous marriage - he was always the consummate professional.

Until fucking _now_.

“Ten minutes, Baelish,” called the AD.

Petyr stared deeply into a tumbler of amber coloured bourbon.

“Hey,” she clamped her hand over the rim. “Not tonight, B.”

He shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. “I know. I didn’t. I was just...thinking about it.”

Marge took the glass out of his limp grip and moved it to a shelf far away. When she turned back to him, her smile was warm and only barely touched with concern. Petyr was known to brood.

“Twenty years, B,” she tips her headset at him, almost in salute.

His laugh is only a little bitter. They’re all convinced it’s age that’s bothering him this year. Little do they know.

“We’re going live in fifteen. I need you outside the mansion in ten for last checks. Don’t forget your mic.”

His hands lifted in an empty gesture. “Have I ever?”

“See you out there.”

And with that, she was gone.

The sigh that left his body was heavy, and his body sagged with its departure. He was too fucking old, and too fucking smart for this. Idiot.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and let his eyes ease shut. Ten minutes, Petyr, ten minutes. His mantra. Every season, it got harder and harder for him to get excited about the same old shit. He came to rely on the beats. Ten minutes to camera. Twenty to lunch. Back in five. This year he was going to fucking need them.

He repeated it to himself over and over as he got up and finished dressing. The wrinkles in his trousers were smoothed over, the crisp linen of his shirt cut a clean figure across his chest, the diamond cuff links had been specifically chosen to catch the light of the camera to make him look especially opulent. Like a Prince. That was the theme this year, wasn’t it? Royally Screwed.

He stood at the mirror Marge had hung for him on the wall. She knew his measurements perfectly by now. The reflection staring back at him showed more grey hair and wrinkles than had been there before. He scrubbed a hand through the short bristles of his salt and pepper beard. He could still sense those phantom fingers that had held him in the dark - that clung to his shoulders and backside with the heat of her breath misting his forehead. Inside his breast pocket he could feel it, as though it were burning a hole straight through to his chest. The white square she had so gently untucked and kissed. Her lips still stained the silken white fabric. It was a gift, for him. A consolation prize.

As he expertly tied his bow-tie, his mind wandered to her again, her touch, the kiss they shared, all the rest they had shared in the dark, when the promos were done and the cameras were off. What idiot thought it would be a good idea to leave him alone with her?

The door opened, and he was sure it was Marge coming to collect him.

“Yes, yes, I’m almost ready!” he barked.

“Hi.”

He froze. That voice - the delicate lilt, the soft sigh that lingered and looped around and around in his head.

“Sansa?” he turned around to face her.

“No no!” she grasped him by his shoulders and turned him back to the mirror. “You can’t see me just yet. It’s bad luck.”

The warmth of her skin, and the memory of her pressed against him was intoxicating.

“Sansa...you shouldn’t be in here...we have to be at the mansion entrance in five minutes.”

“I know,” she sighed against his back, her arms wrapping tightly around his middle. “Just...give me a moment, please.”

He couldn’t deny her, despite every practical voice in his head telling him to create distance and space between them.

“If someone sees you in here...”

“I told Marge I had a note for you about my intro.”

“So if anyone knocks...”

“They’ll think we are going over it one last time before the go.”

He groaned internally. She was impossible. Impossible, impossible, impossible.

“Tell me you’re wearing lipstick,” he pleaded.

She shook she head. “Make up will do touch ups two minutes to. I told them I didn’t want to get lipstick on my teeth.”

Impossible to resist.

He turned in her arms and they caught each other in a desperate kiss. Her lips molded against his and she tasted of raspberries and champagne. The “Good Luck, Bitch” cocktail, according to Marge. He sucked every ounce of liquor off her lips and tongue. Every ounce of liquid courage he could muster. Resting along the edge of her jaw, his fingers twitched to touch her hair, but he couldn’t, it was already done up in a perfect bun with little red curls dangling tantalizingly around her perfect face.

The time nagged on him like a ticking time bomb, and he reluctantly pulled back from their kiss and pressed his forehead against hers, his hands travelling down her shivering arms to entwine with hers.

“They’re going to come for me in about three minutes,” he said regretfully.

Those bottomless sapphire eyes caught him from under her thick black lashes. The soft lilt in her voice was teasing, though the look in her eyes was dead serious. “I bet I can make you cum sooner than that.” The corner of the floor length gown was raised to accommodate her sudden descent to her knees, and he was out of his trousers and in the wet, welcoming warmth of her mouth before he could protest.

“Oh, S-Sansa...” he gasped. His head lolled back as she began to suck in perfect rhythm.

He came in two minutes.

~~~~

Tywin was going to have a fucking heart attack.

Whose fucking idea was it to do the whole fucking show live? Why did he agree to this?

If it failed it could be a disaster, on all fronts - financially, technically, virtually, literally. A big fucking disaster. The show could be cancelled, reputations would be tarnished, credibility squashed, years and years and years of smart business-making decisions, phwew! Out the window.

But if it succeeded...they could change the face of fucking reality tv forever.

Goddammit!

“Tell me that this is going to fucking work,” he whispered to Margaery, tugging her smoothly into step with him as they walked.

As the major producer of the show, no one batted an eyelid when the two of them ducked into a sheltered alcove just off the mansion entrance.

“I have all of two minutes, Ty,” she looked down at her watch.

“God, I feel like I’m about to have an apoplexy,” he leant against the wall and loosened his tie.

Margaery rested a hand on his shoulder. “Did you take your medication? You’re doing that thing with your eyebrows again.”

“For fucks sake, yes!”

Margaery crossed her arms and frowned. He only ever got like this when he was really stressed. Over the years she’d gotten good at keeping him perfectly unstressed, especially at the start of a new season.

“Well if it’s not Xanax you want then get to it, the contestants are arriving in five, and I need to make sure Sansa is in place before that happens.”

“Just tell me that this isn’t the biggest fucking mistake of my career. That when those cameras switch on that I won’t be throwing millions of dollars and twenty years of well-established media programming on the whim of my four foot nothing lay-about son.”

Her hands on his chest were like a balm to the tightening in his lungs. She cooed him as though her were a nervous child or an anxious dog.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he relaxed under her ministrations. “Tyrion is doing great. Not a drop of liquor all day. He’s ready, he’s focused, and he’s gonna stay that way. I’ve got him in command central, and I’ve got eyes on him. Even so, you don’t have to worry, everything will go according to plan, we’ve got Baelish.”

Of course, of course they did. That was it, wasn’t it? The secret to this shows success. Some speculated it was right people - right time - right money, or they believed that the show was so rigged it couldn’t help but be successful. But neither was completely true, not really. Everyone, from the top executive producers to the chefs in the catering truck knew that the real key to what made a show like Love Story tick all came down to its host. And they had the best one in the business.

“Speak of the devil,” Marge peeked her head out of the alcove.

Petyr was coming down the front steps in his tailored tuxedo. Looking like a suave, older James Bond - all calm and collected. Liscence to kill.

“Here he comes now. I’ve gotta go make sure he is properly miked, and at first marks. So go, find your chair and for Christ’s sake, be calm.”

She was right, of course. Tywin Lannister was the king of ice cold calm - except for when he wasn’t - and it was his reputation to remain unaffected. If anyone saw him - HIM - losing his shit, the entire production would lose faith. Marge squeezed his wrist and rushed off to nab their star, the one this entire enterprise relied on. Tywin took a moment to steel himself, his expression hardening under a facade of cool indifference. This was the Tywin everyone knew, only Marge was permitted to see him as anything less.

Stepping out of the alcove he was the picture of sober confidence. He weaved through the crowd of busy bodies darting this way and that to make sure everything was in place when that big light turned from red to green. Behind the throng was the viewing gallery for all the producers to watch like a murder of crows, ready to pick off the bones of their investments. His chair was clearly marked in a place of prominence, and he sat down into it as if he was already assured of the night’s outcome.

A waiter came by with the snack menu, nothing but the best for the shows MVP, Most Valuable Producer.

“Drink sir?“

“Whiskey. Double. Neat.”

He was going to fucking need it.

~~~~

“Are you ready?“

The look he gave Marge was pure sardonic displeasure.

“No. It’s not like I’ve done this for twenty goddamn years.”

“Petyr, I’m serious.”

“Yes, yes. I’m good. I’m ready. Stop fussing.”

He swatted her fingers away from the hair or two that was out of place.

“I just want to be sure. Ok. The Contestants are going to come in from the limos, just like we rehearsed, and Sansa is gonna come up the Rose Walkway from the far side of the house. Make sure not to speak over the orchestra.”

Petyr sighed. Of course, couldn’t do a live show without a live 20 piece orchestra. That would be criminal. He thought he got out of community theatre eons ago.

“Anything else?” he sighed. Ready to get it over with.

“Nothing, just be as handsome and charming as always.”

“That I can do.”

She squeezed his wrist one last time. Her tight smile betrayed only slightly the nerves she felt. They were all relying on him, he had to remind himself. That’s why they had to go through with this.  
There was no getting out for either of them.

Always the consummate professional, Baelish. Ready, steady, Baelish.

Margaery went to sit behind the monitors, readjusting her headset.

“Three-Eyed Raven to Command Central. Come in, Command.“

The headset garbled.

“Command here.”

She adjusted the sightline of one of her three monitors.

“We are ready with cameras, 2, 4, 6, and Steady Cam 1.”

“Loud and clear, Raven. Command is a go. Commercial ends in t-minus twenty seconds.”

“Copy. Command. And good fucking luck to us all.”

“Amen.“

Margaery looked up to Petyr.

“Just like we rehearsed B,” she gave him a wink. “Sexy, saucy, energy, excitement!“

“And keep ‘em wanting more,” he winked back.

“That’s what I like to hear, Daddy.”

One of the cameramen stifled a chuckle.

Marge lifted her hand. “Places?”

An echo of voices calling “Ready” all around the set resounded.

“Going live in 5...4...3...cue music...”

The orchestra hummed in anticipation.

“2...1...and go.”

The orchestra that was arranged all around Petyr on multiple rose covered platforms suddenly roared into life with the opening musical sting. The cameras on their hydraulic stands began to move animatedly as though they were a living creature awoken from a dormant sleep. Lights twitched forward like a series of multiple shining eyes staring at him accusedly.

“And cue Petyr,” Marge’s voice came over the earpiece surreptitiously tucked out of the camera’s sightline.

The camera came into position and as though possessed by a whole new being, the man known as Petyr melted under the facade of the Host. Sexy. Saucy. Ready. Steady. Baelish!

“Live from Love Mansion! It’s the Great Westeros Love Story!”


	2. Episode 1 - Premiere

~~~~

_2 weeks earlier_

~~~~

The first thing he saw was the flash of her brilliant red hair.

“What can I get you lass?” asked the bartender.

“Whiskey, double,” she ordered, then paused. “Actually, make that two.”

The bartender gave Petyr a surreptitious glance.

“Well, aren’t you in good company tonight, Miss,” he said cheekily.

“Pardon?” her brows furrowed in a delightfully cute way. She noticed him at the other end of the bar, with two glasses before him- one empty, one half. “Oh,” she ducked her eyes to hide an embarrassed smile. “What are you celebrating?”

“The end of an era,” he shrugged, tipping his glass to her as the bartender placed the first double in front of her.

She tipped her glass back in cheers. They drank.

“And you?”

“Last night of freedom,” she answered just as vaguely.

They cheered again and drank.

The redhead scoffed somewhat to herself. “I think I might be insane.”

“Are they locking you up?”

She laughed. “In a way they are, yes.”

“Then you probably are insane.”

This made her utterly splutter with laughter, her drink almost getting caught in her throat as she choked and laughed, and breathed and laughed again. Tears had come to her eyes, but the laughter felt good. Needed.

“Oh, thank you for that,” she dabbed at the stray tear with her finger as her body regained equilibrium.

Petyr gave a strange flick of his hand in response.

“You drinking alone?” she asked.

“I am,” he nodded.

“So am I. Would you care to drink alone together?”

It was Petyr’s turn to chuckle. “Yeah, yeah,” he waved her over. This woman seemed pleasant company enough, and her behaviour suggested she didn’t know who he was. The anonymity of it all appealed to him.

“I’m Petyr,” he offered her his hand as she rounded the corner of the bar.

“I’m...” she hesitated for a moment. “Alayne.”

~~~~

_Premiere Night_

~~~~

“It’s on!” Jamie shouted from the living room.

Tommen and Myrcella came running from their rooms and piled on to the couch.

“Is he on yet?” cried Tommen.

“It literally just started...”

“Has she arrived yet, is she beautiful? Does she look like a princess?” Myrcella didn’t even stop to breathe between questions.

“I don’t know. They haven’t even got past the intro.”

“I bet she is the most beautiful woman in the world and once she sees Joff she’s going to fall instantly in love.”

Jamie bit his cheek. He didn’t want to ruin the magic for his niece and nephew. A lot of things could happen when the Bachelorette met Joffrey...but he was sure falling instantly in love was not one of them.

“We’ll have to see won’t we.”

Cersei came out of the kitchen cradling a glass of wine.

“Ugh, can they get anymore tacky?”

Jamie gave a sympathetic side glance to the kids who glued their eyes to the screen and away from their mother awkwardly.

“Oh, I’m sure there have been some improvements since your time,” Jamie tried to remain chipper, scooching over on the couch so Cersei could sit beside him. She sat in the chair across from him. He did his best not to shrug.

“It was a tacky show then and it’s just as tacky now. And rigged.”

“It was only rigged for you because one of the major producers of the show happens to be your father.”

“Grandpa’s like Cupid,” Myrcella giggles.

Cersei scowled over the rim of her wine glass.

“Yes, and what a prince he struck for me.”

The ink from the divorce papers still stung on her fingertips.

Jamie leant over and gently grasped her hand; a comforting gesture between brother and sister.

“Don’t be too hard on him. He did provide you with three beautiful children, did he not?”

Well, two beautiful children anyway. Allegedly.

Cersei’s mouth curved only slightly over the wine, her hand squeezing his gratefully. Jamie had always been a prince to her.

“And if we’re lucky,” Jamie turned back to Tommen and Myrcella, plastering on a jovial smile despite the growing doubt in the back of his mind. “We’ll be able to see Joff do just the same.”

“Uncle Jamie look!” cried Myrcella.

The title sequence was finally over, and there was Love Mansion.

~~~~

“And we’re back!” called Marge, signalling with her hand.

Petyr was already at his second mark - immaculate as always. Camera 4, on the dolly, began making its slow approach. In these moments Petyr was like a well-oiled machine. Thoughtless; purely functional. It was the only way he could make it through this without thinking of her.

They had walked through every beat of his intro with the cameras the day before. He could tell, just by the atmosphere in the room, that the more he spoke, and with each mark he hit perfectly - making his way down the elegant marble staircase, littered with tea candles and rose petals - he was allieving the worries and doubts of every crew man, director, and producer watching him. That was the Baelish-effect, Marge had told him once.

“In just a few moments, it will be time to meet this season’s contestants. Every one of them hoping to win the heart and hand of our beautiful Bachelorette. Will one of them be able to melt this northern Princess’s heart? Only time will tell. All this when we return to The Great Westeros Love Story.”

“And we’re out!” called Marge. The crew gave Petyr a round of applause. Premature...there was still 2 hours of this premiere to get through.

Make-up was on him in a flash, applying powder and hairspray to all the needed areas. Luckily Marge was there to rescue him from Olyvar’s clucking and snide remarks about all of Petyr’s “wrinkles”.

She directed him to his third mark, at the foot of the Rose Walkway, just at the entrance to the mansion.

“Just like we rehearsed Petyr, Sansa’s gonna come over the walkway after you introduce her. The brief pre-rec segment is going to play over the screen...” she pointed to the large screen positioned on one of the towers. “...and then, you know the drill, ladies and gentlemen, our bachelorette, and then she comes...”

Petyr was only half listening, his mind already whirring in anticipation of seeing her again. He could still feel her lips around his cock, where she had brought him to an exquisite end not a half hour ago. His ears still rang with her sighs; his mouth burned from her kisses. A pang of longing tore through him.

“Hey, you listening to me?”

“Yes, yes,” he shook his head, willing the thoughts of Sansa to leave his head.

“B...” Margaery’s brow furrowed with a touch of concern. “If there’s anything wrong...”

“Nothings wrong...just...lines, making sure I have them, that’s all.”

“Ok,” her eyes narrowed a little. “But if you need to talk...”

“Not now, not...now,” he tried to smile; tried to make it seem like nerves, or his divorce, or anything but the slaking dirth of need he felt for the absolute most forbidden of fruits.

Marge’s headset garbled. The concern melted instantly as she shot straight into business mode.

“Okay people we are back in one minute! I want limos idling and Sansa on standby at the walkway stairs. Ok people! Let’s make some fucking romance happen!”

~~~~

_2 weeks earlier_

~~~~

“All right, you’s two are cut off. Get out!” the bartender playfully shooed them off the bar.

“Aww Stanley!!” whined Alayne.

“You don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here. Some of us actually would like to go home tonight. So get!”

Petyr got off the stool and found his jacket, pulling out his wallet and paying for the drinks.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she smiled at him, and placed her hand on his arm. The appendage tingled where she touched it and he couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol or her that was the cause.

“I know,” he shrugged. “You can make it up to me by joining me for a walk.”

Alayne laughed. “Is this blackmail?”

“It can be.”

She snorted again and took his hand. “Deal. You can walk me to my hotel.”

“Who said anything about a hotel,” he teased. “No ma’am the night is not over until you’ve had 3 am pie.”

They somehow managed to stumble their way to a small retro-style diner and shared the little booth in the back corner.

“Chocolate milkshake and a lemon meringue pie to share please,” Alayne ordered before Petyr could protest.

“You want whip?” asked the disinterested waitress.

“Who doesn’t want whip?” Petyr scoffed.

“Cherries?”

“Both of them.”

Alayne laughed . The waitress rolled her eyes and walked away to put in their order. Alayne’s hand fell naturally on to his thigh.

“So tell me Alayne,” he reached up to her face to push aside a stray red lock that had caught onto her eyelashes. “What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this, drinking with a man like me?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “My life has been feeling somewhat same-y as of late, and I needed to throw a wrench into the works, so I decided to do something outrageously stupid which has brought me here. And you...you just happened to be a nice surprise.” she smiled at him l and something in him lurched. “But tomorrow...”

He shook his head. “We don’t have to worry about tomorrow.”

The waitress arrived with the large slice of pie and the milkshake in a tall glass with two straws peeking out of a mountain of whip.

They dug into the pie in a companionable silence until Alayne decided to break it.

“Can you tell me about this?” she lifted their entwined hands from under the table. On his ring finger there was still the pale line from where his wedding band used to be.

Petyr swallowed his mouthful of pie. “I just got a divorce,” the words fell out easier than expected. “Just signed the last papers today.”

“Oh.”

Petyr took another bite of pie and squeezed her hand reassuringly.

“We don’t have to worry about yesterday either. Unless it bothers you.”  
Alayne emphatically shook her head.

“No, it doesn’t bother me. Nothing about you bothers me.”

Her eyes widened, realizing her slip of the tongue. Petyr laughed.

“Good, I’m not bothered by you either.”

They finished the pie in silence and moved on to the milkshake. He was sure she could sense his eyes watching her as she clasped the base of the straw with one hand just above the mountain of whip. Her moments were slow and exaggerated - sucking up frothy mouthfuls of milkshake in an unapologetic manner - purely for his benefit.

Without taking his eyes from her he plucked one of the cherries from the top of the shake and held it up to her.

“Do you know how to tie a cherry stem?”

Alayne laughed. “Is that your best line?”

“Cause I can,” he grinned and popped the cherry into his mouth. Behind his lips she could see the way his tongue worked - fine sharp movements as he skillfully tied the stem into a little knot in record time. He showed off his triumph by sticking out his tongue with the little knot displayed on the tip.

Alayne gave him an uproarious applause before he discreetly spat the knot into a napkin and offered it to her.

“A keepsake for you,” he teased.

She laughed, taking the napkin hesitantly - but she did not back down from his subtle challenge. There was, afterall, two cherries.

Instead of popping the whole fruit into her mouth she plucked the stem off the cherry and set to work on knotting the stem. It took her longer than it did him but she did eventually got it knotted, and after displaying her handiwork she lifted up the abandoned cherry to his gaze.

“I concede to the winner,” she grinned, bowing her head slightly to him. “You make take your prize.”

She took the cherry and placed it in between her teeth, offering her mouth to him.

Before now, Petyr had felt like a dead man walking. His divorce, his job, his life all felt like nothing. And yet - now he was here, with this gorgeous woman, tying cherry stems, and eating pie - and so fucking hard he was going to burst.

When he leant down to close his mouth around hers and the cherry, the cherry fell behind her teeth and he was instead met with her lips - it was like getting drunk all over again. Her tongue drew into his mouth, coaxing his own tongue into the mix. He groaned in to her. Oh, he could take her right here, right in this booth. Sure, he’d never be able to patron this establishment again, but at the moment, it seemed a very small sacrifice to make.

Distracted as he was by kissing her, he was not aware of the intrusion of a foreign object entering his mouth via her tongue until he instinctually bit down on the object and his mouth was overcome with a burst of sweet juice. It took him so much by surprise that he pulled away from the kiss almost in horror.

Alayne clapped her hands triumphantly.

“That was dirty,” he wiped his mouth were some of the juice had dribbled on his chin.

“Oh but it was so good,” her hands clasped the sides of his head as she leant up and kissed him softly. Instantly his ire left him and his desire returned, potent, yet now sweetened by their teasing jabs.

This kiss was slower - not as possessed and frantic as before - but still drenched in the want that was becoming more and more prevalent between them. Petyr felt his own hand drift down her torso till his fingers grazed at the hem of her dress.

“Tell me to stop and I will,” he nearly panted against her, only stopping a brief second to suck in a calming breath before kissing her again.

“Mmm, please,” she sighed. Each kiss was a sweeter hit than the kiss before. Oh, he really was about to fuck her in this booth. And she was going to let him.

Before he could take action and slip his hand under her skirt the waitress appeared, looking unimpressed.

“Can I get anything else for you?”

Obviously they were not the first couple to ever walk into this diner at this hour and nearly fornicate on the vinyl seating - but the waitress’ tone was clear: Either order something else, or take your PDA somewhere else.

“Just the bill please,” Alayne said confidently, before whispering, “Tit for tat, Petyr.”

~~~~

_Premiere Night_

~~~~

The screen Tywin was watching switched from Camera 1 to Camera 6. B Roll of the contestants filing into their designated limos out on the lot. The lens zoomed in on a group of them standing in a huddle waiting to be called.

In the huddle he saw a flash of very familiar blonde hair that had him sitting up in his seat.

Was that?

The camera shifted again.

Go back, you fucking idiot. Go back.

There it was again. Tywin shifted even closer to the screen.

Come on, show yourself you little twit.

And as if on command, the young man shifted into view of the camera, clear as day.

Something in Tywin’s chest restricted. The blood that had just begun to relax from the alcohol now shot ice cold.

Goddammit.

“What the fuck is he doing here?”

~~~~

“And go Petyr!“

On went the red light.

Petyr’s smile was brilliant. The orchestra struck up with the familiar theme. The camera was on him like a hungry beast.

“As you know, it wouldn’t be a great season of Love Story without a great leading heroine. And this year we have a found a Bachelorette to die for...”

He was dying right now.

“Let’s not wait another minute. A northern Princess, as out of a fairytale, locked in her castle, waiting to meet her Prince at the Ball. Or, in this case, a cocktail party...”

Margaery found herself stifling a small laugh. It was not so much the terrible joke as the way Petyr was able to deliver it.

“Let’s meet her, our Bachelorette Season 20. Sansa!”

“And out.“

Above them, a screen played the pre-rec segment that they had filmed with Sansa a week ago.

_“My name is Sansa...”_

The muscles in his chest constricted -seeing her, all beautiful and painted with foxy red lipstick that matched her hair.

_“I’m just you’re average Northern girl from Winterfell...”_

The way she laughed had his stomach bottoming out to his pelvis. Every ounce of blood stirred. Even just the image of her, on a screen projected miles above him had his body aching for her.

“B...” Margaery’s hands clasped his shoulder, shaking him out of his trance. “We’re gonna make a small adjustment, B, ok?“

Petyr nodded, his words momentarily failing him.

“Do you need anything?“

His mouth felt like a desert. “Water.”  
It would have to do since bourbon was off the table.

Marge snapped her fingers at an idling PA nearby and sent her off for the requested water.

_“I’ve never really been in love before. I’ve never had that fairytale romance. And I’m ready for it. I want to find it. I want to find the man who I’m supposed to spend the rest of my life with...”_

God, she is so beautiful, Petyr thought. How was he going to survive? He closed his eyes briefly, just to capture the memory of her limbs wrapped around his...foreheads touching as they breathed the same air....as she rode him...as she came...

“...and when the camera swings around you move to greet her, does that make sense?”

Petyr blinked back to reality.

“Hmmm?“

“Did you get any of that?”

“What? Uh, yeah, yeah.”

Marge looked skeptical. Twitching her eyebrow up at him as though he had answered her in French. The PA arrived with the chilled Love Story branded water bottle and thrust it in between them towards Petyr.

“Thanks,” he nodded to the young woman who grinned and gave a little giggle sound before trotting away.

Marge rolled her eyes, the interns always found him attractive - whether it was the tux, the charm, or the secret power he seemed to possess, she’d never know.

Petyr hardly noticed, occupied as he was with quenching his parched throat.

Marge grabbed him tightly by the arm, tugging him away from the wandering ears of the crew.

“Ok, you are really starting to worry me.”

“I’m fine,” Petyr shrugged, replacing the cap on the water.

“You keep saying that, but I don’t know, all day you’ve been just off and I can’t shake it. What’s going on? This is more than on the day nerves, or your divorce, or whatever bullshit you are trying to sell me with those big puppy dog eyes of yours.”

Marge spoke low and pointed - her business voice - he would have to come up with something to convince her. Something that would get her off his back and put her at ease.

“It’s nothing,” he took another sip of his water. “It’s just...the first year I’ve done the show without...you know.” He could see the sharpness in her eyes soften with realization. He layered it on expertly - the aversion of the eyes, the gentle shrugs. “He and Lysa would usually watch the premiere together, and this year they won’t be, either of them. I’m just feeling the loss more than I thought I would, is all.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie -he hoped would be enough - enough to hide the real reason he couldn’t concentrate.

“I’m sorry, B.”

He pressed his mouth together, and nodded.

“I can do this. I’m here, Margie, I am. I haven’t let us down so far.”

She nodded. “Ok.” Her headset beeped and she pressed the button at her ear. “Raven,” she answered the voice at the end. She nodded. “Got it. Out.” Her face shifted back into AD mode. “We’re back in fifteen seconds. To marks, B.”

She held out her hand for the water bottle and he handed it over with a small smile.

“Thanks, Marge.”

He waited until his back was to her before he breathed out a small sigh of relief. He didn’t like to exploit Marge’s sympathetic nature or their long friendship - but he was sure she would castrate him by the root if she found out the truth.

Petyr found his mark at the foot of the rose walkway, watching as the last few seconds of the pre-rec segment faded out, and Sansa’s angelic face fell behind the Love Story logo.

“And go,” Marge pointed to the cameraman and the little dot switched from grey to red.

Petyr exhaled, long and slow.

“And Petyr, go,” she pointed to him.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” his voice came out steady, practiced. “It’s time to meet our Bachelorette for Season 20 of the Great Westeros Love Story. Sansa Stark.”

The orchestra began to twinkle in from behind him, soft and slow. A low fan was brought quietly to the edge of the frame and rose petals were one by one dropped into the gentle wind, just as a curtain of full red roses parted and there she was.

Petyr’s heart stopped in his chest.

“Holy shit,” Margaery muttered under her breath, her hand coming up cover her microphone.

“Holy shit,” muttered Tyrion in Command to his assistant sitting next to him.

“Holy shit,” Cersei Lannister muttered into her second glass of red wine across town.

“Holy shit,” muttered the first contestant - an older man, in a dark suit, and a long face sitting at the right hand side of the first limo, waiting just off set.

“Holy shit,” said Petyr. Even the pre-rec segment could do nothing to diminish how beautiful she was in real life. How her red hair sparkled in the artificial faerie lights and tea candle flames. The dress she wore was a deep royal crimson, bedecked with Swarovski crystals that caught everything fraction of light. Her long luxurious mane - the mane he had run his fingers through that night, that had fallen down around her breasts, and curled over her face as she had called out his name - was now braided into a gorgeously simplistic updo, with a wreath of baby’s breath woven into the back. She looked like a princess - a goddess - a queen.

Fuck - he loved her.

~~~~

_2 weeks earlier_

~~~~

“Petyr,” she sighed, clutching the hair at the back of his head.

He moved slow and purposefully, intending to hit every last spot within her. If this was to be his only night with this marvellous creature he would make it last. Her lips still tasted of the sweet lemony meringue.

“Uhh, Alayne...uhhh, I’m gonna...” he pulled out suddenly to her surprise and crawled down her body to pick up where he left off with his mouth. Bringing her to that toe-curling peak and withdrawing again to meet her back at her mouth. Their kiss was biting, and sweaty, and good, really fucking good.

She flipped him over until he was on his back and brought his hands to her breasts as she slipped him back inside her.

“Aghhh,” she sighed and it was like music. She rode him roughly - her long red hair clung to her shoulders and back.

He cupped the back of her neck to draw her down to kiss him as he thrust up into her.

She moaned.

“Ohhh there. Petyr. There.”

He gripped her bottom tightly and grunted.

“You’re killing me,” he whispered huskily to her. Eyes slammed shut, forehead pressed against forehead.

She kissed him, a small laugh bubbling inside of another moan. “Good.”

They spun over again, and he fell into her. Those long legs wrapped around him like a vice.

Sweat beaded his face, the sweet condensation of their mutual exertions - and he came, high and sweet, and looooong - so long he wasn’t even aware of her limbs shaking around him, or the high breathy sigh of his name on her lips several seconds later. The pace of his hips slowed right down and he pushed himself up on to his arms so that his lower half pushed right into her and pinned her to the mattress. She breathed heavily, and it moved her chest up and down in such a wonderfully erotic fashion - even in the dim, hazy early morning light of her hotel room.

He cupped her face, and swept the sweat-soaked strands out of the way so that he could look at her unobstructed. She nuzzled the palm of his hands, and something deep in his gut tightened.

“Where did you come from?”

She bit his palm.

Afterwards they could only sleep for an hour or so before his preset alarm awoke them and they had to rise exhausted but sated. From last night’s events. Wordlessly they shuffled to the bathroom and got into the standing shower together, pressed back to back. Petyr could not help the smile that quirked on his face every time he thought about her sighs from the night before, or they way that she laughed, or the way she said his name. So preoccupied with his washing and musings, he was unable to see her her own smile as her own thoughts mirrored his.

They finished showering and dressed, and whilst she sat at the edge of the rumpled bed they had thoroughly broken in not two hours ago, brushing out her long, wet hair, he finally spoke.

“I might not be able to see you again...for awhile. It’s not that I don’t want to, trust me...I,” he scratched the back of his head, willing to find the words. “It’s my work,” he sighed. “For certain periods of the year they purposefully isolate me...in a way...it’s hard to explain...”

The dismay and hurt he had feared he would see miraculously never crossed her face. She smiled, ducking her eyes and nodding.

“I won’t be able to see anyone for awhile either.“

He vaguely remembered the discussion they’d had the night before. _We don’t have to worry about tomorrow._

“I can’t call you.”

She bit her lip to stifle a small giggle. “Me neither.”

Relief spread through his chest. The night had been so pleasant, he had hoped it would not end on a sour note. The way she smiled had him on his knees kissing her once again.

“It doesn’t bother you?” He was incredulous between kisses.

“No,” she laughed. “Nothing about you bothers me.”

His heart stopped. Oh, he had to see her again. He couldn’t let her slip through his fingers like he’d let every other good thing in his life.

He reached into his back pocket and produced a card. A simple white card with merely his name and his number, lacking all logos or figureheads.

“Eight weeks, I’ll be available in eight weeks or so. If you’d like to...i mean, just to see each other again, no strings. I want to see you again.”

She took the card, her brow knitted in thought, as though she were running calculations through her mind. One night plus eight weeks plus mind blowing sex.

“Ok,” she finally nodded.

He kissed her once more, then left the room - the hotel - as though he were walking on air.

Halfway down the street he received a text from Tyrion.

 _Meeting_ _with_ _the_ _new_ _Bachelorette_ _today_ _at_ _the_ _Studio_. _Don’t_ _forget_.

And he wouldn’t. He would never forget.

~~~~

_Premiere Night_

~~~~

“And commercial!” Margaery shouted. The camera switched off. Make up and hair descended on them like vultures laden with Rimmel London and hairspray.

“I want a reset for Act Two!” Margaery barked to the crew. The orchestra had to be relocated, the cameras rearranged, the roses petals cleaned off the stairs and the rose walkway magically made over into the Bachelor Boardwalk - all in a manner of four minutes.

All Petyr and Sansa had to do was stand at their marks.

After the last stylist sprayed their last jolt of hairspray on Sansa’s bun, they were finally left alone - as alone in an incredibly busy room full of crew member and PAs as two people could be.

“Hey,” Sansa said quietly, her eyes averted deliberately away from him.

Petyr stepped as close as he dared, and looked the other direction just as deliberately - as though he were examining one of the video screens off stage.

“Hi,” he answered just as quietly.

The touch of her smallest finger grazing against his hand had him angling his body so that he could twine those delicate digits in between his discreetly. Her hand was shaking.

“You’re nervous?”

He could hear the lines of her smile, and his gut twisted with want.

“No, I...” she sighed. “I just wanted to touch you.”

Petyr sucked in a calming breath, ugh she was killing him.

Sansa’s body came closer, the warmth of her body tingling up his arm and shoulder. She was close enough to whisper.

“Come to me tonight. Will you?”

He clenched his teeth. He was trying so hard to resist but she was wearing him down, down, down. Down to absolute nothing.

“I know what I said,” he sighed. “That we could...that this could go on...”

Her smile faded just that infinitesimal amount, and it cut every bit of him to do that to her.

“But I feel its in your best interest if perhaps we stop.”

“Oh,” she stepped away from him and the loss of her warmth nearly stopped him dead.

“If we are caught...” he swallowed thickly. “I don’t care about losing my job, I have other investments and savings, and with all I’ve done for this company there is not much they could do to me other than to have me go quietly into the night, that’s not the issue - it’s you I worry about.”

“We’re back in 60 seconds!” Marge barked at them. They both nodded in acknowledgement.

Petyr scratched his forehead, smoothing his free hand down is meticulously trimmed beard.

“Ever since Myranda they have made the Bachelorette’s contract ironclad, there is no way out of it without years and hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of litigation, and I don’t want that for you.” He touched her arm. “I...I just want to give you your best chance.”

Sansa pressed her beautiful red lips together, and looked down at her feet. “How am I going to make it through this without you?” Her voice sounded so frail, he almost said ‘forget it, I love you, I love you forever!’

“30 seconds!”

“Please Sansa. I promise you - it’s my job - I know out of this lot, I will find the best man for you.”

He touched her arm again and her beautiful blue eyes finally met his, searching his for some kind of answer. He pleaded with his eyes. Let me do this for you, I love you.

Finally she nodded, seemingly having seen her answer somewhere within him.

Marge appeared before them, handing Petyr his water.

“You good, hun?” she asked Sansa.

Sansa plastered on an easy smile. “Yeah, yeah. Just nervous.” She met Petyr’s eyes over Margaery’s head.

“Oh hunny,” Marge nudged her playfully. “This is the easy part. You don’t have to impress anybody. This is the guy’s time to impress you. Just be yourself and remember your marks and trust Petyr to guide you should anything go astray. That’s what he’s here for.”

Sansa nodded. Petyr averted his gaze and took a hesitant sip of his water.

Marge’s headset beeped.

“Ok people!” She cried, once again slipping effortlessly form girl friend to Boss. “Time to open the limos and let in the men!”


	3. Episode 1 - Premiere Part II

~~~~

2 weeks earlier

~~~~

The call came just moments after he had left the hotel room.

“Good morning Sansa,” said the assistant director Marge over the phone. “You ready for today bitch?”

Sansa laughed, twirling her finger around a drying strand of hair. She could still smell his cologne in the sheets on the bed - feel the ghost of his hands on her skin.

“You didn’t get too carried away on your last night of freedom, did you?”

Sansa pressed her lips together to suppress a smirk but she couldn’t help the smile in her voice.

“Nothing too destructive.“

“Good, cause we are making the official announcement tonight at the Studio Season Launch Party. Don’t worry, we have you completely covered, make up, hair, wardrobe, the whole shebang. But we would like you to come down to the Studio this afternoon to have a meet ‘n greet with some of our producers and of course, the host of the show. Can you be ready in an hour?”

“Uh, yeah, yeah I can.”

“Fantastic! See you soon chicky.”

Marge hung up. Sansa tossed her phone and sighed dramatically, flinging herself on the bed. Why did she do this to herself?

She closed her eyes and even in the full light of day she could still see him. His soft grey eyes, his careful smile, his body in and out and around hers all night into the early morning.

“Why?” she asked herself. Why now? Why did he have to come into her life today of all days?

~~~~

Premiere

~~~~

Tywin headed to the lot where they corralled all the awaiting contestants, as though he were a cop cracking down on a sting operation.

He walked calmly, so as not to startle any passerby by, but with such an ice cold ferocity no one would dare try to stop them if they wanted to.

“I see you, ya bastard,” he cursed under his breath.

He walked by a large red-headed man with a beard, and a thinner man in a tailored suit sporting a man bun. He didn’t care so much for them. They were the regular lot - gentle giants and bro-douches that always peppered the cast every season.

There was only one rotten apple in the bunch. One that was truly the poison in the water well.

He grabbed him by the arm and didn’t even stop walking.

“Hey what the fuck-“ the young man began to protest, but the words swiftly died on his tongue once he saw who it was who had grabbed him.

“What the fuck, indeed,” Tywin hissed. “What are you doing on my fucking show?”

The young blond man lowered his eyes to the ground. “Hello Grandpa.”

Tywin hissed.“Don’t call me that here.”

He pulled Joffrey behind a corner and slammed him against the wall.

“Now, son, I’ll ask you again. Why the fuck are you lining up to get inside one those limos to appear on my goddamn show?”

Joffrey shirked out of his grandfather’s former military grip.

“I auditioned, fair and square. I didn’t even have to change my name.”

Tywin snarled. Those idiots. How had this gotten past Tyrion, or even fucking Marge. He released the boy and stepped back, still affixing him with a deadly gaze.

“Who put you up to this?”

“No one.”

“Bullshit.”

“I swear.”

Then it all clicked together in his mind.

Oh fuck, Cersei. Bloody brother-fucking petty little Cersei.

~~~~

Her cellphone rang. She had half a mind to ignore it.

Jamie was busy in the kitchen with the kids making popcorn.

“Call when he’s on!” Myrcella reminded her before disappearing behind the door.

Cersei waved her hand dismissively. To be honest she could care less. What was important was the blocked number currently blowing up a storm on her phone.

She swiped right and held it to her ear.

“I finally have your attention.“

“For fuck’s SAKE!”

Her lips curled into a wicked little smile.

“Hello Daddy,” her voice was false and saccharine.

“I suppose my money wasn’t good enough for you.”

Her eyes narrowed. She sipped her wine.

“It was a bandaid on a wound gone necrotic. A wound you helped create in the first place.”

“So what, you’re going to take it out on me, your brother, on all of us.”

“I have no intention of doing anything. I’m at home, with my children.”

“Not all your children,” he growled.

She smiled again. Triumphantly. “No. Not all. How is my sweet Joffrey?”

“Hi mom!” She heard her son’s voice in the background.

“I hope you’re being nice to him. Myrcella so has her heart set on seeing her older brother appear on her favorite tv show.”

Her father growled. “How did you do it?”

“I just called in a few favours. It was really rather easy. Your casting department has gone soft over the last 20 years. I didn’t even have to make him a fake I.D. I think Joffrey will make a wonderful addition to this anniversary season, don’t you?”

“Over my dead body.”

“Indeed, old man!” she sat up, her wine splashing in its glass. “Or do you forget - I’m playing with a loaded deck, Father. There isn’t enough money in the world to buy everything that I know about you and your precious little reality show. If my son, your beloved grandson, doesn’t make it to at least top three, I am prepared to go full metal jacket on your ass. I will run you, Petyr and your beloved Love Story right into the motherfucking ground until all that’s left is some sequins and a handful of trampled rose petals. Do I make myself perfectly fucking clear?“

She hung up.

~~~~

Tywin slammed the phone into the ground once the line went dead. “FUCKING FUCK!”

He grabbed his chest, reaching for the small packet of heart pills in his breast pocket with shaking fingers - quickly pulling out two and swallowing them dry.

“Are you gonna kick me off?” Joffrey stood their awkwardly - looking so much like the sweet child he used to be that it hurt Tywin’s chest even more than the heart arrhythmia.

Tywin clenched his teeth. Joffrey was a fucking liability, and he was going to have a very, very strong word with the casting department after all was said and done. But he would be a fool not to heed his daughter’s threats. Having Joffrey on the show was a fucking nightmare, kicking him off the show would be an even bigger one. Plus, this season was on thin legs as it stands - any word of scandal, or one of the contestants being unceremoniously dropped on the night of the Premiere, Joffrey or not, would send the whirlwinds of gossip swirling around theirs heads, waiting to upend the entire franchise.

“No, no, it’s too late for that.”

Joffrey smiled, toothily. Relieved.

“But you better be on your best fucking behaviour or you can say goodbye to your inheritance. You hear me?”

Joffrey raised his hands defensively.

“Fine,” the queezy feeling he’d had in his stomach earlier returned. “Return to the limo bay. And don’t let me catch you telling anyone I’m your grandfather.”

Joffrey left chastened.

Tywin picked his phone up off the ground - fortunately Marge had fixed him up with a shatter proof case for just these occasions. He sighed, tucking it into his pocket. His pills were working their course through his body, and his heart was returning to a normal rhythm. He closed his eyes and sighed.

 _Shit_ , he thought. _I need Margaery._

~~~~

2 weeks earlier

~~~~

Everyone loved her.

“They all love you,” Marge said handing her a drink. Sparkling wine.

Sansa had shaken hands with the producers, and of course the Director, himself, Tyrion.

“This season is Tyrion’s brainchild,” Margaery explained. “He been wanting to mix things up for years now, and with the ratings we had last season it’s about time.”

Sansa nodded. She was a bit beyond words to be honest. All of this felt - amazingly surreal.

“Don’t worry, girl,” Marge smiled, tapping her glass against hers. “We knew it from the moment you walked in. You’re going to be perfect.”

Sansa looked around the room, at all the hands she had shaken, and all the people who had introduced themselves to her.

“I’ve met many producers and crew members but I don’t think I’ve met the host yet. Is he here?”

Marge gave her an amused smile.

“You’ve really never seen the show?”

Sansa shrugged. “I think I saw an ad for it once.”

“Oh believe me, you will know Petyr when he walks in. He is magnetic.”

Sansa nodded and sipped her drink. “I’m sure he is.”

There was skepticism in her voice. All anyone seemed to be able to tell her about the man is that he was some kind of people wizard with charm for days. Sansa had met charming men before - there was a fine line between charm and smarm.

The only thing significant about him, is that he shared the same name of the man from last night. Now there was a charmer.

Her stomach squirmed a little at the thought of him.

Marge’s look went from friendly to strangely sad. “Look, I know, most hosts of this particular brand of reality tv are usually thinly veiled douches who can barely keep their hands to themselves, but B’s not like that. He is first and foremost a professional in all things. And he’s...he’s been through a lot the past few years. The one scandal he’s ever had on this show was the whole Myranda Royce debacle and it...” Marge sighed. “It’s not what everyone makes it out to be. Petyr was innocent.”

Sansa knitted her brow in confusion.

“Who is Myranda Royce?”

“Do you really...” Marge cut herself off and stared at Sansa for a long moment then suddenly laughed. “No you don’t, do you?”

Sansa shrugged, her face obviously giving away how surmountingly overwhelmed she felt.

“Oh hell, I blabbed too much. Look, forget about it, forget about Myranda Royce and everything else I say. Just focus on you, k girl?”

Sansa bit her lip and nodded. “Ok.”

“Great,” something caught Marge’s eye. One of the older producers who was chatting to one of the pretty young PA’s. “Excuse me girlie, I just have to have a talk with someone.”

Marge excused herself and Sansa got herself a refill, chugging it down quickly to dispel the sudden influx of nerves.

Perhaps it wasn’t too late to change her mind. Perhaps she could tell them that she can’t go through with it, that she met someone else, that she won’t be able to give them the season they want. Perhaps she could leave now and find him and maybe they could explore what ever it was they found together last night.

She cursed. It was too late. She signed the contract yesterday. Binding. And even if she hadn’t she wouldn’t be able to contact him, and she did not have the money to wait around her hotel for eight weeks until he would become available again. You’re stuck, Sansa, you’re well and bloody stuck.

She was halfway through her second refill when the atmosphere of the room seemed to change.

“Ah Baelish,” a voice cut through the din of the room. Ah, so the host had finally arrived. Fashionably late, it seemed. Sansa almost didn’t care about him at this point.

“Tywin.”

That voice - it sounded so familiar to her.

She turned, her glass clutched tightly in his hand. _Oh no. You cannot be serious._

His back was to hers and he was talking with the shows major producer, Tywin Lannister. His suit was impeccably tailored, charcoal grey, with dark green accents. Far from the disheveled man she had met at a bar last night - or the man whose sweaty back she had clutched long into the early hours that morning.

Marge appeared at his side, pressing a double bourbon into his hand and whispering something into his ear.

“Ah,” Tywin spotted Sansa standing behind them - no doubt looking like a startled mouse. “Petyr, have you met our Bachelorette?”

Crap. She couldn’t very well run now.

He turned achingly slowly. Her heart thundered like a timpani in her chest. Grey eyes met hers, and she saw them shift slowly from indifference, to recognition, to incredulity, to amusement all in the space of five seconds.

His charming smile easily hid his shock to the others, but somehow, she could feel the air spark and crackle between them - as the memories of last night fluttered back to the surface.

“This is Sansa Stark,” Marge came around his shoulder to make the proper introductions.

His eyes widened just that much. “Sansa Stark?” He said the name slowly and carefully - his mind putting the pieces of last night together. Her ruse has been successfully demolished in a matter of seconds, but the moue of his mouth betrayed his composed expression. Whatever he was feeling, it was not anger.

“Tywin and I will give you a moment to become acquainted, do you need a fresh drink, chicky?”

Sansa looked at the empty flute in her hands and nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

Marge took the glass and Tywin and walked away, leaving the two of them alone. Sansa felt like suddenly she could breathe again.

“Petyr...Baelish?” She drew out his name, just as she had hers.

“Alayne...or should I say, Not Alayne.”

Sansa suddenly laughed, her hand coming up to cover her face.

“Of course!” The laughter escaped her like water. “Eight weeks!”

Petyr gave her an amused smile. “You had no idea who I was?”

Sansa shook her head as her shoulders began to tremble with barely contained laughter. “I’ve never seen the show a day in my life...if I had I would never have...” Her laughter died. The night before flooded back to her mind. She couldn’t even think it.

“Well, I did want to see you again,” Petyr muttered under his breath, taking a half step closer to her. “But I didn’t think it would be so soon.”

Sansa lifted her eyes to meet his.

“For the record, you are insane,” the hand at his side twitched, and she felt again, that tendril of connection between them. The same that had drawn her into his arms the night before.

“Oh shit,” she muttered out loud. “Is this...are we...oh my god!” She covered her mouth again to stifle a gasp. A million and one thoughts raced through her mind all at once. “Was last night a breach of contract?”

It was his turn to laugh.

“I’m serious. I sighed the contract for the show yesterday afternoon. Am I...should we tell someone you and I...”

He hushed her, calming her with his familiar hands. She could still see the pale line on his finger, and feel the weight of his hands against her breasts and along the sides of her face where he had pushed her sweaty sex-mussed hair out of her eyes that very morning.

He shook his head. “No one has to know. Last night of freedom is none of their business.”

“But I...”

He shook his head again.

“Last night can stay just between us.”

Something caught in her lungs - like the air suddenly turned thick. _Last night - oh god, last night._

“As far as I know, I spent the night in the arms of a beautiful woman named Alayne, and you are Sansa, the Bachelorette of Season 20.”

She breathed out, somewhat relieved. “Of course. I am Sansa, and you are Petyr Baelish, the host of the Great Westeros Love Story.”

“And that’s all.”

She nodded. “That’s all.”

They shared a conspiratorial little smile together. Behind her shoulder, Marge was already on her way to rejoin them with Sansa’s refill. Petyr slipped easily away from the man she had met last night to an all new figure - disarming and distant and utterly out of bounds.

“Well, I should go mingle,” he said with an easy smile. “It was a pleasure meeting you.” The dark familiarity of his eyes and the husky notes of his voice sent a shiver up her spine.

He shook her hand and walked away, quickly disappearing amongst the other suits and ties in the room - and the air turned back to normal.

Sansa gave a short nod to herself. Good, she thought, this is how it should be. No distractions, no wondering about the man she had promised to call in eight weeks time, no worrying what the hell she was going to do, or how she was going to survive. It seemed fate had answered all those questions for her. The only question that remained: How the hell did she get herself into this mess?

~~~~

Premiere

~~~~

The limos began to pour in, and for the next 20 minutes all Sansa saw was an endless blur of men.

All of different shapes and sizes, all trying to stand out.

One came in dressed as Prince Charming.

“Hi, I’m Lancel, but my friends call me Prince Charming.”

“Oooh Lancel,” Sansa played coy. “Is that short for Lancelot?”

The young man’s smile faded. “No...”

Sansa could swear she heard crickets.

Another man, stepped out of the limo wearing a masquerade mask that matched his suit.

“I’m Jaqen, with a Q.”

Sansa tried not to snort.

“I’m a magician.” He said with smile. He swiped a hand over his face and the mask magically shifted to a whole new mask before her eyes.

“Oh wow!” Sansa clapped her hands. “How did you do that?”

“A magician never tells.“

Sansa leaned back on her hip and peered at him teasingly, like a skeptic about to ask which sleeve the ace was hidden.

“Are you a man of many faces Jaqen with a Q?”

He swiped his hand up and the mask shifted again.

“I can be,” he shrugged easily. “But if you say the right words, I can show you the only face that matters.”

He swiped his hand one last time and all the masks were gone revealing a handsome, narrow face underneath his dirty blonde man bun.

Sansa applauded again, tipping her head to acknowledge she was  
impressed.

And so on it went. Handsome man after handsome man.

Loras the Florist, and his bouquet of champagne roses. “A rose by any other named would smell as sweet.”

Podrick, the 9 inch Sweetheart. “You know what they say about guys with large feet.”

And Samwell, the well-read bookworm. “I would like to leaf through your pages, if you know what I mean. Or you know...just get to know you over a cup of tea, whatever you fancy.”

Some were more charming than others.

Theon, the iron born snob. “The Krakken is a family emblem. I went to Harvard, you know.”

And Sandor - the gruff, silent type. “Where’s the bar?”

And some just knew how to make an entrance.

“Oi, my name’s Tormund,” he brandished a large block of ice from behind his back. “And I’m here to BREAK THE ICE!!”

The red-headed beast of a man slammed the ice block to the ground causing it to shatter into a million ice chunks at their feet.

Sansa shrieked, in both shock and delight.

In all, twenty men exited sleek black limos, and descended the Bachelor Boardwalk to Sansa at the foot of Love Mansion to request entrance - to both the house and her heart. But there was only many, in between all of them, that managed to stick out to her. Petyr.

Sansa envied how easy Petyr could disappear behind his mask. As soon as Marge yelled Action, it was as if a whole new person took charge of his body. Everything about him shifted, his face, where he carried his weight, the position and tension of his shoulders. Easily charming, effortlessly calm and efficient - and as off limits to her as any man could be, especially now that he had drawn the line between them.

But fuck her if he wasn’t sexy as hell.

“Ok, last two and then we cut to commercial,” Marge’s calm voice came murmured from the earpiece, artfully disguised behind a lock of perfectly curled hair.

“Copy that,” Tyrion’s voice garbled from Command Centre.

A handsome blonde man, in a deep burgundy suit, and shiny leather shoes stepped from the limo. His eyes were piercingly blue, and sharp, and his smile was just a little thin and lop-sided. His clothes were noticeably fine, and she noticed, sparkling at the end of his sleeved were a pair of lion-headed cufflinks.

He held out his hand. “Name’s Joff.”

“Hello Joff.”

He bowed and kissed her hand.

“Oh wow, you are beautiful,” he eyed her from head to toe, like an appraiser of fine merchandise. “Breath-taking. No wonder they call you princess.”

Sansa blushed. “Thank you.”

“Oh, and just as beautiful inside as out, I see,” he reached into his lapel, pulling out a narrow red box. “A token, of what is to come.”

Inside the box was a simple, but beautiful bracelet of a fine pair of silver doves, their beaks just kissing one another’s, surrounded by a beautiful chain woven with little red stone.

“Oh my,” Sansa gasped.

“I think any woman such as you should be treated like a Queen.” He smiled and knelt down to adorn her wrist with the trinket. “I hope you like it.”

Sansa gaped at the bracelet. “It’s beautiful...you shouldn’t have...”

He cut her off with a wave of his hand.

“A gift, no strings attached, only one small favour,” the handsome Joff caught her gaze with his piercing blue eyes. “Have a drink with me inside?”

Sansa covered her mouth to stifle a small laugh. She nodded. “I think I can manage that.”

Joff leant in and kissed her gently on one cheek, then the other. Behind his head Sansa spotted Petyr standing just off camera, a dark look of pure seething displeasure on his face, Something about that look, both frightened and excited Sansa.

She pulled away from Joff and squeezed his hand. “See you inside,” she said with a radiant smile and Joff nodded, quickly making his way up the stairs to mansion’s foyer.

“Ok, last one,” Marge chirped in her ear. “Sending him in now.”

The last man to exit the limo was a dark haired man, dressed in all black, with the peek of some sort of tattoo on his arm. There was something about the look of him, something in the way he held himself, or perhaps the oddly cold look in his eye, but Sansa felt immediately wary of him.

“Ramsay,” he introduced himself to her. His touch was cold and harder than she expected.

Sansa could sense Petyr bristling - a protective predator sensing a threat.

“Hello Ramsay,” Sansa tried to smile off the creeping coldness.

“My, you’re a pretty thing.” Said with all the tenderness of a butcher to an unslaughtered lamb. “Tell me Sansa, do you like to play with dolls?”

“Excuse me?”

“Or do you prefer to be the doll being played with?”

His words weren’t so terrifying as the way he said them. His eyes were dark and empty, and Sansa felt a cold shiver run up her spine.

“Petyr,” Marge muttered in her ear, and Petyr was at her side in a flash. The Host in everything but the hard look in his eyes.

“Sorry to cut this short,” Petyr smiled with a hint of menace in his tone. “It seems you will have to continue this meeting inside.” He gave a pointed nod to the unsettling Ramsay.

Ramsay’s smile was tight and unfeeling. “Of course,” he bowed his head. “I look forward to it Sansa.”

Sansa tipped her head at him and he left, stalking up the stairs like a vulture denied his meal. Sansa couldn’t help the small sigh of relief he disappeared behind the mansion’s door.

“We’ve met all players for this season, but the night is not over yet. The Love Story continues after these messages.“ Petyr segued them effortlessly to commercial.

“And we’re out!” The whole room gave a great sigh when the camera’s cut out.

“Make-up!” Marge snapped her fingers.

“Sorry,” Sansa muttered to Petyr. “I completely froze.”

“Hey hun,” Marge marched over, handing her a water bottle. Petyr backed off - once again creating aching distance between them. “Are you ok? Jeez, there always tends to be one creep per season.”

“I’m fine,” Sansa tried to smile. “Just a little unnerved, he was quite...” She couldn’t even explain what it was about that Ramsay guy, all she knew was that she didn’t like it.

“Don’t worry, Sans. When it gets to the one-on-ones we’ll make sure Petyr is there. You won’t ever have to be alone in a room with him. Petyr will keep you safe, Petyr will always keep you safe.”

Sansa looked over to Petyr. _Yes, yes he wouldlike no one else._

The persona of host fell from him and with his mask dropped all she could see was the raw look of concern, care, and perhaps a little jealousy in his grey eyes. Something in her chest ached not being able to touch him, or hold him, after that weird brush with what felt like danger.

The make-up artist appeared at her side with lipstick, and Sansa stretched her neck to accomodate her as she applied a fresh coat of red paint to her Cupid’s Bow.

“Thank you,” she muttered as the artist walked away.

Petyr moved to his next marks at the mansion entrance for the upcoming segment, and stood there adjusting his cuff links. He was still unable to meet her eyes - and despite all the men who had spent the last half hour trying to impress her with the handsome smiles and cheesy gimmicks, none of them could even hold a candle next to the feelings stirred in her by Petyr.

What a bloody mess.

She should’ve known from that first moment that he was going to be trouble for her. She should know by now that she is unable to resist trouble.

“Marge,” she asked, loud enough that he could hear. “May I have a quick word with Petyr?”

Petyr finally looked up from the floor.

“You have sixty-seconds.”

Sansa nodded, grabbing the hem of her dress and trotting quickly over to where Petyr was standing.

“What are you doing?” he whispered, wide-eyed.

“I understand, Petyr,” she said steadily. “And I agree. There is no way out of this for me other than to choose one of these men at the end of this. And I have every faith that you will be able to pick the Prince out of all the paupers. I accept that...but...”

Petyr’s eyes were wide imploring her to finish. She could practically hear his heart thrumming beneath his impeccable suit.

“I also know that I won’t be able to stay away from you, and more than that I don’t want to. And I don’t think you want to either.”

The hand at his side twitched, and the hairs of his moustache bristled.

“Find me the right man who I can leave this show with, do the requisite post show circus, then part with amicably, and after all is said and done and I am no longer under contract, be with me.”

“We need you inside in fifteen seconds, Sansa!” Marge called from her booth.

“Heard!” Sansa answered back. “Don’t answer now. Think about it. If you want me as I want you come to me tonight after the taping, and tell me your decision. If you don’t want me, then we will continue the show as is.”

His mouth opened to say something.

“Five seconds!”

“Later,” Sansa said with a surety she did not even realize she had, and walked away from him, her head held high, her smile just that little bit brighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of Sansa’s perspective. Turning the tables. And little bit of Tywin freaking out, always a bit of fun.
> 
> Hope you are all enjoying this weird little journey into a rose-covered reality dimension, because I’m having fun.

**Author's Note:**

> My friend made me watch last season’s Bachelorette so of course, OF COURSE, I had to write something about it. 
> 
> It’s a bit out of my usual style, but it’s all in good fun. I bit of fluff a bit of sexiness, a bit of danger. The Margaery-Tywin is for Ophelia_Raine :) 
> 
> Enjoy!


End file.
